Page 5 of The Botanist’s Improper Bride

He headed to his office, withdrew his sketches and arranged them in chronological order, then sat behind the desk and opened the letter from his closest friend, Baron Richard Sylvestor.

Leaning back, he began to read.

Trevor,

I hope you’re well. It feels like an eon has passed since I saw you last, although I suppose perhaps that’s because so much has changed since then.

I know that my wife has already written to you with her thanks for attending our wedding, but I would like to reiterate how much it meant to me to have my oldest friend present. I know that social affairs are not something you enjoy—and nor is London, so I’m grateful to you for making the effort.

Marriage suits me well. While I may have known Marianne for almost as long as I’ve known you, I learn so many new things about her with every passing day. I cannot stress enough how wonderful it is to share my home and life with someone.

I’m happy, Trev, and I only hope that one day you’ll get to experience the same thing.

How is everything at Nunhaven? What are you studying at the moment?

I look forward to hearing from you.

Your friend,

Richard

Trevor narrowed his eyes. He was glad Sylvestor was settling well into married life, and it was nice that he had taken the time to write, but this stank of his mother.

He couldn’t help feeling that Lady Wembley had encountered Sylvestor, discovered how much he was enjoying marriage, and encouraged him to extol the virtues of a wife to Trevor so that he might decide he wanted one for himself.

After all, Lady Wembley was nothing if not persistent, and she wanted a grandchild. Not only that, but the Wembley title needed an heir to follow after him, and both of his parents would like him to set about providing one as soon as possible.

With a sigh, he set the letter aside. He would figure out how to respond to it later.

He reached for the second letter, but a jittering buzz started under his skin, an anxious sort of energy from knowing that his parents and friend were conspiring—even if it was, supposedly, in his best interest.

He knew his parents wanted him married, but it was overwhelming. How was he supposed to court a woman when he barely knew how to properly conduct himself in a ballroom?

Society had rules about how things were supposed to go and what the appropriate conversation topics were, and he always forgot because they made absolutely no sense. If something didn’t make sense, how was he supposed to remember it?

Growling under his breath, he shoved the chair back, jumped to his feet, and shook out his arms, legs, and torso, trying to work the jittery sensation out. The feeling eased but didn’t go away.

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to focus on the contents of the other letter, he retrieved a logic puzzle from the top drawer of his desk and started working on it. He liked to collect the puzzles from periodicals because they helped clear his mind when he became overwrought.

As he worked, his breathing slowed, and by the time he finished, he felt ready to open the letter from his cousin, Miss Letitia Carruthers.

Letitia’s handwriting was more graceful than Sylvestor’s, and she had kept the note relatively brief.

My dearest cousin,

I am writing this letter on the evening following my good friend Miss Seraphina Dalton’s aborted wedding ceremony.

I thought you might like to know that her betrothed, The Less-Than-Honorable Phineas Beardsly, fled London for Italy at dawn, leaving Miss Dalton to discover that she would not be marrying upon arriving at the church.

There is no possibility that Beardsly will be retrieved. He is too far gone. Miss Dalton remains unmarried, and hopefully, not entirely ruined by that cad’s abominable behavior.

Yours sincerely,

Letitia

The words swam in front of Trevor’s eyes. It was all he could do to make sense of them. What sort of man, when given the chance to marry the most lovely, intelligent woman in England, would throw away that gift?

Beardsly had to be the stupidest man on the planet.